Seasonal Scribbles
by Ennui Enigma
Summary: Hades' December 2019 Challenge: Now complete. Last prompt from Hades Lord of the Dead: burn after reading. Happy New Year!
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Many thanks to Hades Lord of the Dead for arranging a month of creative writing and fun. 31 prompts for the 31 days of writing_

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**December 1: Prompt from Mrspencil: A runaway sleigh**

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"No, left, I'm sure the Mansfield stables is that way, " Watson pointed urgently; waving his mittened hand in the opposite direction their equine transport was trotting.

Holmes frowned and turned briefly to look over his shoulder at Watson. "Based on my analysis of the terrain and the trace aroma of wood smoke wafting ahead of us, I am sure we're on the right track."

Watson twisted in his seat in the sleigh to get a wider view of the snowy fields, shaking his head sadly as he viewed the tortuous tracks of their transport behind them. "I think we're going in circles," Holmes.

"Impossible," growled the tall detective, grasping the reins with tighter knuckles.

"Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains…" Watson's lips tightened in a straight line. He crossed his arms across his chest after tightening the scarf around his neck. With a practiced sigh, he settled deeper under the lap rugs.

Holmes slapped the reins and purposely ignored his passenger's not-so-subtle cues. "Come on, Ginger," he grumbled to their horsepower still moving along at an energetic clip. "What does Watson know about getting to Mansfield, anyway? If he was so sure of his directions, why didn't he offer drive in the first place?" The wintery wind whipped around and tried to toss away the words, but not quite quick enough.

"I heard that, Mr Genius Detective Driver!" Watson's muffled voice angrily replied. His eyes darted over to his partner staring intently straight ahead.

Holmes hummed and urged Ginger onward.

"Ignoring my sound… and accurate advice, I might add, will not eliminate the problem," Watson continued. "If you don't turn around soon, we will never make it to Mansfield… at least, not this century." He gave his detective partner a glare, or, maybe it was a dare.

The detective's grip loosened slightly as he processed his partner's pronouncement. Could Watson be right? His mind stumbled momentarily.

Ginger, trotting steadily ahead, suddenly sensed her driver's confusion. With an equine intuition, she instantly understood the situation. Her nostrils flared and her gait lengthened.

Holmes' fingers slipped.

"What's happening?" Watson's alarm bells went off as he sensed the change in pace and saw his partner lurch forward unexpectedly.

"She's out of control!" Holmes desperately tried to gather in the reins and regain control of Ginger.

The horse was too quick. She artfully tweaked her head up and away to avoid Holmes' efforts.

"Woe!" Holmes and Watson cried out.

"Do something!" Watson grabbed at Holmes and lost his balance. The two toppled over each other like a couple of loose bowling pins, ending up in a pile of furs, scarves, and flailing limbs on the bottom of the sleigh. By the time the two had righted themselves, the sleigh had taken a near 180. Ginger was trotting with confidence, her mane streaming elegantly in the breeze, tiny snow crystals forming a fringe across her eyelashes. There was a distinct twinkle in her eyes.

"Can you get the reins?" Watson gasped, struggling to regain his precarious balance.

"I'm not sure," Holmes yelled back, slightly out of breath himself after their tumbling routine. He reach out and tried unsuccessfully. Their sleigh raced on ahead. "We have a runaway sleigh, or, more accurately, a runaway horse."

Ginger's frosted lashes blinked and, if horses could smile, she grinned.

"Um, Holmes?" Watson shaded his eyes against the freezing air. "Do you see what I think I see?"

"What?"

"Over there," Watson pointed ahead. "Isn't that the Mansfield Stables?"

Holmes squinted against the icy tendrils of snowflakes stinging his face. "You're right. That is the stables." His face creaked into a rare smile. "What do you know," a slow chuckled rumbled within his chest. He turned to look down at his friend. "It turned out our horse had more navigational sense than either of us."

The two men settled down into their seat. "Well done, Ginger," Watson smiled. Ginger flicked an ear in response.


	2. Ch 2: Broken

**December 2: Prompt from Domina Temporis: Holmes breaks something of Mrs. Hudson's**

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A/N: Sorry for delay in posting… something happened with my inbox reply notifications. Oops!

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"Holmes!" Mrs Hudson's aggrieved voice wavered across the hallway and cut through the conversation Watson and Holmes were having over the merits of coffee versus tea.

Dr Watson turned a curious look toward his flatmate and stopped mid-sentence. "Um…"

Holmes kept his expression neutral. "I maintain that the flavonoids of Oolong tea are far superior…"

"Mr Sherlock Holmes!" Mrs Hudson's voice urgently interrupted again.

"Shouldn't you respond?" Watson asked.

Holmes took another bite of toast. "No."

Watson arched an eyebrow.

The detective shook his head.

A sharp rap and the clang of the dining room's door opening announced Mrs Hudson's arrival. Watson looked over at their housekeeper/landlady. They exchanged a knowing glance. He sighed.

Holmes slowly lowered his toast and carefully replaced it on his plate. He dabbed the crumbs from his lips with his napkin. "You wanted to see me?" He turned his full attention toward their upset landlady.

"Very much so, Mr Holmes," she answered, slightly out of breath from her recent exertions. "And, I think you know why. It doesn't take a genius detective to know what I'm upset about."

Watson looked expectantly at his detective friend.

Holmes' quick glance revealed his exit strategy was blocked by his long-suffering landlady. His gaze dropped and he suddenly became fascinated with buttering another piece of toast. "Really?" his voice wavered weakly. "Something the matter… I couldn't begin to know… so many things seem to upset you these days."

"Now don't start that with me, Mr Holmes." She stood resolute.

"I suppose you might be a bit upset about er… well, you know…" his voice trailed off. He gulped and his words slipped away.

Mrs Hudson stood firm.

"Well… I suppose," the detective replied with a sheepish shrug, "that pie pan of yours might have been handy in the kitchen."

"Handy?! Is that all you can say? It was my best one. I used it for all my mince pies and now I find it shattered into no less than five pieces – all curiously charred and covered in a sulphurous yellow-green substance, the likes of which I have no idea what it could be but I assume it's some poisoned substance from one of your noxious chemical experiments. Why you find it necessary to use my baking utensils is beyond my understanding."

Silence.

"I'm sure we can purchase a replacement for you", Watson intervened. His quavered at the threat of no more mince pies at Christmas. "Anything you want," he pleaded.

"Humph! I suppose that'll work." Mrs Hudson's temper appeared to be abating. "And, Holmes…"

"Yes?" the detective answered, hesitantly.

"No more experiments in my kitchen. None. Do you understand?"

"Yes, of course," Holmes readily replied.

Mrs Hudson finally left to finish her clean up.

Watson let out a sigh of relief. "Narrow miss, that," he stabbed at his bacon. "Holmes, I just don't understand why you keep using Mrs Hudson's kitchen implements. Yo know she doesn't like it. Why risk it?"

"They were handy. I needed a glass dish to finish my analysis and her pie pan was available and clean." He shrugged.

Doctor Watson made a mental note to ensure his doctor's bag and medicines were never 'handy' for Holmes.


	3. Ch 3: Don't Underestimate Me

December 3

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**From Winter Winks 221: 'Do not underestimate me'**

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"Hurry, Watson, the trail grows cold," Holmes' energy was infectious. "In just one week we've solved the case of the missing snowman (a case that would melt your heart), the murder at the granary (it was a cereal killer), and an identity theft (Holmes' doppelganger actually). I am unstoppable!"

Watson followed dutifully behind, placing a hand on his hat as the wind sent another gust in an attempt to rip it off his head. "Yes, yes, Holmes. You are certainly in fine form this week."

Toby wagged his tail in agreement. "Even our canine tracker agrees with our progress. Just look as his enthusiasm." Holmes held a tight grip on the lead as Toby pulled forward, nose to the ground, following the scent of the missing schoolboy.

The two men trotted rapidly behind their canine assistant, stumbling over icy streets, snowy fields, and ultimately a forgotten barn where the kidnapped boy was rescued.

As Holmes surveyed the happy family, reunited with their son, he smiled. It was a grin big enough to reach his eyes.

"It doesn't get much better than this, eh, Watson?"

"No, it doesn't," agreed his partner.

"The game's afoot, my friend. Nothing can stop us." Holmes beamed.

~0~

Two days later, the great beaming detective lay prostrate on his sofa, wrapped up like a mummy in several layers of blankets. "Watson, I'm dying!" He groaned. "I don't think I'll last another day. Achoo!" He reached for a tissue and blew his nose.

"You do have a nasty fever but I don't think you're dying, Holmes" Watson looked at the thermometer recently plucked from the detective. "With a bit of time and extra rest, you should be back on your feet in a few days."

The sick detective gave another low moan and sunk under his covers, curling into himself.

Watson sighed and settled into his reading chair. "So much for 'on top the world, nothing can stop me,' he mused silently.

The doctor sat quietly in his chair, thinking for a while. At last he muttered quietly, "Never underestimate the power of the lowly germ."

Holmes' only reply was a sniffled snore from underneath his covers.


	4. Ch 4: Cold

_A/N: Sometimes inspiration hits; sometimes not so much. Basil, the great mouse detective and Dr Dawson make an appearance._

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**From cjnwriter: This was the coldest s/he had ever been.**

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Did you know the temperature drops 9.8 degrees centigrade for every 1000 metres (~3000 ft) elevation gain?"

"Not exactly, I suppose," his partner chattered through trembling teeth. "Although, given our frozen, snow-white surroundings with glaciers for icing," I find such a factoid quite convincing. He shivered again and tucked his woollen scarf tighter around his neck. "Was it really necessary to climb Mont Blanc*? Couldn't we capture George the Gouger when he comes back down from his alpine retreat?"

"Absolutely not, dear friend," the detective empathically declared as a frozen cloud of air escaped his lips.

His companion grunted. The high altitude left precious little oxygen as he struggled up the icy slopes of the mountain.

In spite of Basil, the great mouse detective's enthusiasm for the hunt, Dr Dawson was not convinced. 'What goes up must come down,' he mused through muffled wraps. He'd never been so cold in all his life.

His whiskers drooped heavy, icicles forming stalactites at the tips. His nose dripped like a faucet. Delicate crystal formations decorated his eyebrows. His tiny mouse paws were pale and numb. And his tail…. Dr Dawson turned his head around to check and make sure it was still attached. Thankfully, it was. He had remembered to tuck it into his trousers.

"Brr…" he shivered. So cold!

A/N: *Mont Blanc is the tallest mountain in the Alps at 4,808 m (15, 774 ft) above seas level


	5. Ch 5 A Red Painted Door

December 5

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**From W. Y. Traveller: A red painted door**

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"Holmes, have you shifted your location on the sofa in the past 24 hours?"

"Yes."

"Oh really, besides taking care of necessities?" Watson raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

"Yes."

"Hm. And have you left this room?"

"Yes," the detective let out a long sigh.

"Outside the flat?"

"If you must insist on this incessant line of questioning for which I see no logical reason or explanation then, yes, I have gone out today… and, obviously, returned, my dear Watson."

"Oh."

The detective shifted and sunk deeper into his hollow on the sofa, closing his eyes.

"Holmes?"

"Really, Watson, do elucidate your entire inquiry in a full and complete sentence… for the sake of our future peace!"

The doctor hesitated with a slight cough.

"I wonder if you, perchance, crossed the threshold of our flat, whether upon your exit or entrance and noticed something?"

"Based upon the manner of this little inquisition, I deduce a significant event has occurred most recently. Do enlighten me so I can return to my former analysis."

"Well, Holmes, as you know, the holiday season is upon us. I like to foster the spirit of Christmas. And, one of our Irregulars was looking to earn a copper."

"Do get on with it," grumbled Holmes. "Just tell me what happened – succinctly, please."

"What I'm trying to say is that I had our front door repainted. Mrs Hudson approved, of course," he hastily added.

"Ah, right." Holmes closed his eyes and absorbed the information.

"It's red," Watson finished.

Silence.

Nothing more was said for several hours as Holmes returned to his reverie and Watson his reading.

"Watson?"

"Yes, Holmes?"

"Green is complimentary to red. Perhaps you should add an evergreen wreath to our front door. As you mentioned, it is the season, after all."

Watson smiled.

"Yes, an excellent idea, Holmes. I'll arrange for it in the morning."

He stood up and stretched and poured a small dash of whisky from the cupboard. "One for you too, Holmes? A toast to the holiday season?"

"Yes, thank you.

Holmes stretched and reached for his glass.

The two raised their glasses **clink**

"To a red painted door…. And all the goodwill that this season's colour embodies!"


	6. Ch 6 Watson's Gambling

December 6

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**From W. Y. Traveller: Watson's gambling gets the better of him**

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"Watson!" Holmes spluttered. His eyes registered both shock and dismay as he entered the flat and surveyed the situation. "What madness has come over you to cause such a transformation?"

"It's a long story," mumbled Watson.

"I have all the time now," Holmes proclaimed. He plopped down in his chair by the fire and reached for his pipe. "Do elucidate me on the reason for your sudden alteration in apparel and, presumably, occupation."

"Oh really, Holmes, I'm sure you have more pressing matters to analyse."

Holmes eyes twinkled. "None whatsoever. I eagerly await your revelations."

"It's really not important."

"Oh, well, even the smallest trifle can be significant. Please, do continue. I am interested in ALL the details – even those you may feel tempted to leave out."

"Holmes, I don't think this concerns you."

"Oh, but it does, my dear Watson. After all, what affects you also has repercussions upon me. I am a concerned observer."

Watson continued dusting the china cabinet. He didn't say anything.

"Would you like me to start? Would that help?"

"Not really," Watson muttered. "But since I see you will not let the matter rest, do continue. "

"I observe that you hold a feather-duster in your hand. You have never dusted in your entire life. Since no one is threatening you with a knife while you placidly fling dust in the air, I presume you do this of your own free volition."

Watson remained silent.

"Furthermore, you are wearing Mrs Hudson's apron – the frills at the edges and bow in the back are quite distinctive. I also note the bucket and broom in the corner."

Watson completed his dusting and began sweeping without reply.

"Since Mrs Hudson isn't complaining about the use of her things, she is also somehow involved in this metamorphosis. How am I doing so far?"

"Yes, Holmes, Mrs Hudson is involved. She's rather a key figure too," Watson gritted his teeth and started filling the bucket with suds.

"Ah, I see." He settled deeper into his chair and waited.

Watson sighed.

"If you must know, Mrs Hudson turned out to be surprisingly adroit at the races." He frowned. "How was I to know her late husband taught her about horse racing? She can pick out a winner from 50 yards away. I lost the bet."

Holmes' pipe sent circular tendrils of smoke upward. He nodded.

"As payback, I am on cleaning duty for a month."

"A rough bit of luck, there," Holmes relied sympathetically. "Your propensity toward gambling at the horse track has rather dealt you a brutal blow. "  
"I've learned my lesson at least," Watson gave a wan smile.

"Oh, and what's that precisely?"

"Never gamble with Mrs Hudson."


	7. Ch 7 Adelaide Kemble

December 7

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**From Winter Winks 221: Mrs Hudson and Adelaide Kemble**

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Mrs Hudson hummed softly to herself as she tidied up. It was a rare occasion these days when she was entirely alone in the flat. Between her lodger's irregular hours and innumerable visitors, there was almost always someone occupying a corner. As she straightened a pile of papers and books, her eyes were arrested by the lithograph of a distant but familiar feminine profile. The straight nose with intense dark eyes focused on the future. Her dark hair was pulled back into a artistic braided bun leaving only a single symmetric curl on either side of her face. Even in black and white, her features exuded a graceful gentility.

"Adelaide Kemble," Mrs Hudson paused and fingered the paper. Her eyes softened and took on a faraway look. The memory was still vivid. She could almost smell the antique wood and dusty velvet aroma of the opera hall….

~O~

"What's your name, dear little one?" Adelaide bent down and spoke gently to the golden curled child standing in awe of the famous opera singer.

"My name is Martha, Ma'am."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Martha," Adelaide smiled. "Did you enjoy the show?"

"Oh yes, very much so," Martha nodded enthusiastically. "Your singing was like an angel."

"Why thank you very much, Martha. It warms my heart to hear you enjoyed my performance."

Martha beamed. She felt like she was walking on air for the rest of the evening. She never forgot that night.

~O~

…Mrs Martha Hudson's eyes slowly returned to focus on the pamphlet in her hand. It was an advertisement for the opera show, _Norma_, by Adelaide Kemble, dated 1841. The housekeeper smiled to herself.

"What a wonderful, magical night."

Eventually she carefully tucked the paper into one of her books, A_ Week in a French Country House_.

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_A/N: Adelaide Kemble (1814-1879). She was a successful opera singer and writer. She married Edward Sartoris, a wealthy Italian. Her son, Algernon, married Nellie Grant, the daughter of Ulysses S. Grant (former president of the United States). The most famous of her books was A Week in a French Country House._


	8. Ch 8 Holmes Best Man Speech

December 8

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**From Domina Temporis: Holmes's best man speech**

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_The good Watson had at that time deserted me for a wife, the only selfish action which I can recall in our association. I was alone. _

_~ Sherlock Holmes in The Blanched Soldier_

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Thin wisps of smoke curled into a dense cloud around the young detective. His thin form, wrapped tightly in his dark silk dressing gown gave no sign of life save for an occasional blink of his fathomless steel-grey eyes. The atmosphere hung heavy.

He'd seen it coming, of course. Her charming smile. Her intelligent eyes. Mary brought out the kind and soft side of Watson. Since meeting Mary, his flatmate had never been so happy. He'd taken to humming in the shower and smiling randomly while quietly seated at his writing desk without any external reason. It was endearing and maddening at the same time. Holmes' lips twitched ever so slightly at the memories.

The night was cold. Snow was beginning to fall lightly but still merry groups of Christmas shoppers could be heard hurrying outside the London flat. Holmes didn't bother to light the lamps as the darkness in the parlour congealed. His best friend was going to be married tomorrow. He had his most difficult case yet to contemplate. Definitely, a three-pipe problem.

~O~

"And in conclusion," Holmes addressed the wedding reception, letting his gaze linger on the beaming couple, I want to offer my devoted services, such that I can humanly provide, in support of Mr and Mrs Watson. _I have seen too much not to know that the impression of a woman may be more valuable than the conclusion of an analytical reasoner_ (1). And I must agree with Mary's early intuition that Dr Watson is her destined prince."

Holmes raised his glass. "A toast, to the new couple, to long life and happiness."

The gathered guests cheered in response. Their glasses clinked.

_(1) Quote from Sherlock Holmes in The Man with the Twisted Lip_


	9. Ch 9 Holmes' Sister in Law

December 9

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**From PowerOfPens: Mary Watson is essentially Holmes' sister in law.**

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"How's the case going?" Watson glanced over at the detective who'd dropped in for a brief visit.

"I need more data," grumbled Holmes. "The thief must certainly be one of the new hires within the Kettering household. In order to determine which of the three suspects, I need more information. The household is incredibly, frustratingly, silent. How can I obtain the clues I need without gaining their trust?"

"It sounds like you need an 'inside man' for your case."

Holmes considered this option. "A wise suggestion. Do you still have that apron and cleaning supplies?"

"Absolutely not!" Watson blushed. "I learned my lesson. No more bets with Mrs Hudson. Besides, it's the influenza season. I have too many ailing patients to attend toward. Why not use your own skills of disguise. You've managed to fool me once, you recall. I'm sure the Kettering staff will never recognise their former interrogator."

"Not possible. I must be investigating some other details. It will be impossible to finish this case alone."

"Mycroft?" Watson raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Really, Watson, you know Mycroft. What do you think?"

The two men exchanged knowing glances. Watson shook his head. "Yea, you are right. Perhaps Mrs Hudson?"

"Oh…" Holmes' face took on a sheepish expression. "Perhaps I should have mentioned such earlier… " He gulped. "Um, well… let's not ask Mrs Hudson. I'd rather not engage her presence for a few more days."

"I see…" Watson groaned internally. He understood. He made a mental note to seek amends with the long-suffering housekeeper.

Just then, Mary Watson popped around the corner from her cookie baking in the kitchen. "I couldn't help but overhear. You sound like you're in need of a little help, Holmes. I certainly cannot be your 'inside man' but what about an 'inside woman'? I wield a mean feather duster and look a fair bit better in an apron than my husband."

"Would you?!" Holmes' eyes opened wide.

"Mary, are you sure?" Watson gasped. "Please don't feel you have to. Holmes is a professional and has plenty of resources at his disposal."

"Your husband is correct," Holmes replied soberly. "Although I would be honoured to work together; and, I'm sure you would be more than capable for the task, I do not want you too feel in any way obligated."

"Oh, I think it would be fun," Mary enthusiastically opined. "I've always wanted to go undercover."

She turned to the doctor. "Honey, don't you think this will be a grand adventure? I admit I've always been a little jealous of your escapades… chasing after criminals, lying in wait all night, finding clues… now's my chance to give it a try."

"But, Mary…" words failed the doctor.

"And, before you start worrying, my love, I think beginning an undercover operation as a housecleaner in a grand mansion, is pretty safe - much better than the dashing girlfriend of a murderous serial killer…. An impish grin crossed her face.

Watson gave his wife a kiss.

"And, just for fun, Holmes?"

"Yes?"

"You shall introduce me to the Kettering household with a recommendation as your sister-in-law."


	10. Ch 10 Something New

December 10

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**From V Tsuion: Something you don't usually write**

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Watson sighed.

"I perceive your romantic drivels are not progressing as planned, Watson."

"No, Holmes, they are not. And it doesn't take a genius detective to observe such."

"At the risk of sounding encouraging, for the sake of your peace of mind – and hence my own quiet evening – may I suggest a writing exercise? Perhaps some free associations to release your creative energy."

"I already tried that. No luck. I have a stubborn case of writer's block. That's that."

"A stroll outside in the crisp London fog?"

"Did that earlier. Didn't work."

"Some brandy then… a little alcohol to loosen up your subconscious inhibitions of storytelling?"

"I had one glass of whisky tonight. Further libations would only cause an early bedtime for me or worse."

"How about re-writing your festive fripperies into scientific case notes for the educational aspirations of future generations?"

"What?! No, I am not writing my perfectly logical narratives over again."

"Humrph! You are incorrigible tonight, Watson. You counter my every suggestion. Why not try something new and novel? Leave off your writing and join me by the fireside for an analysis of the latest monograph on the blood splatter patterns of various knife wounds?"

"I will take under consideration that your suggestions, Holmes, were given with the utmost honest intentions toward assistance. However, as such, they are not helpful."

Both men went back to their silent reveries. At last, a wisp of a smile touched Watson's lips.

~o~

_There once was a genius detective_

_Who tried to be corrective;_

_He gave bad advice_

_To write everything twice -_

_His friend nearly lost his perspective._

~o~

Upon hearing the words of the limerick, Holmes raised an eyebrow. "I cannot agree with it entirely, but I will approve of the adjective 'genius'." His eye twinkled.

"You are incorrigible, Holmes." Watson smiled.


	11. Ch 11 Christmas Wrapping

December 11

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**From cjnwriter: "You are absolutely useless at wrapping presents"**

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"Butter fingers!"

"I can assure you, Doctor Watson, that my fingers do not have the slightest smidgeon of curdled solidified milk products upon their surface."

"No, what I mean, is that you are not helping me with the twine for these Christmas packages in an effective manner."

Watson placed an experienced finger on the centre of the twisted string and pulled the two ends into a neat bundle.

"See, like that. You use your finger to hold the ends in place while your other hand twists and pulls tight. Easy!"

Holmes placed a slender index finger on his knot and pulled. The loop slipped.

"Ouch. Now look what you've made me do." Holmes frowned.

"It appears you have incorporated your finger as part of the gift wrapping." Watson gave a wry smile as he expertly loosened the twine and released his partner's trapped digit.

Holmes sighed and rubbed his fingers to restore circulation.

"Here's another package. Why not try again. I'm sure those nimble fingers that can pick a lock in less than 30 seconds can learn to tie a Christmas bow."

Holmes took the festive basket with a scowl. He did not appear enthusiastic.

~o~

A half hour later, several brightly coloured packages traipsed merrily in a row on Watson's side of the table. Each package glowed with neatly trimmed bows, tightly closed with a drawstring knot. The two packages on Holmes' side drooped forlornly. One package had so much twine encircling it that even a spider would have found navigating the maze difficult.

"Well, you have effectively ensured the wrapping doesn't fall off the Christmas gifts," Watson said pragmatically. "Perhaps I should purchase extra twine next year." Watson raised an amused eyebrow at the perspiring detective.

"I propose there be no 'next time', Watson." Holmes nursed his sore finger. "You clearly have the a propensity for knot-tying. Your surgeon's training shines in this department."

Watson grinned. "We each have our talents, I suppose. You may be absolutely useless at wrapping presents," he paused, but you are a genius at wrapping up a crime case."


	12. Ch 12 The Grim Reaper

December 12

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**From Michael JG Meathook: An odd client comes to Baker Street who appears to be the Grim Reaper.**

* * *

"Holmes, you appear to have a visitor who wishes to consult you," Mrs Hudson stood at the doorway of the sitting room and coughed politely to get the detective's attention.

"Oh?"

"He did not give me his card. I asked for his name but he only shook his head. Are you expecting one of your Irregulars? Perhaps a particularly tall one?" Mrs Hudson raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"No. I'm not expecting anyone, Mrs Hudson."

"Well, this gentleman… and I use the term loosely, mind you… is a bit of a shady character. He refused to remove his coat when I offered. I consider myself used to an odd array of human characters from every strata of the social circles but… " Mrs Hudson paused. She shrugged. "I can't put a finger on it but there's something unusually peculiar. Are you sure you want me to send him up now? Perhaps when Watson's fully recovered and back on his feet?"

"Thank you for your concern, Mrs Hudson, but I assure you that your worries are perfectly unnecessary. Watson's fever broke last night and he told me the infection was abating this morning."

The slender detective raised his eyes from his studies. "Speaking of Doctor Watson, would you be kind enough to take him up his tea? It's been several hours since I heard him stir."

"Of course, Mr Holmes." Mrs Hudson bustled off to fetch tea and toast for her ailing inhabitant.

Before she left though, she has some last words. She wagged a finger in warning.

"Be careful! I say, that man isn't right in the head. Not a word from him. All dressed in black like he is. Just standing there on the landing. I never trust a man that I can't look in the eye. "

She huffed.

"And make sure he leaves his scythe by the front door. You know how I feel about large tools. The last time you brought home that harpoon was a disaster!"

~o~

Holmes sat thoughtfully in his settee for a while. At last he stretched languidly. He wrapped his dressing gown a bit more tightly around his thin form and descended the seventeen stairs to the landing.

There the visitor stood. Dark hooded robe. Silent and brooding. Unhurried but alert with an enormous scythe. Holmes had only seen such an instrument in picture books. His mind went over the possibilities. He drank in the implications.

The visitor said nothing in reply to Holmes arrival.

"What is your business?" The detective felt an uncharacteristic shiver of fear tingle down his spine.

No answer

"If you're here to consult the detective, Mr Holmes, speak now. I am he." Holmes peered into the hooded man's face. Only blackness. A cavernous hollow of nothingness stared back at him.

An unconscious gasp escaped his lips.

"State your business or be gone." Holmes said more firmly. His eyes narrowed.

The dark form said nothing. His only response that he'd heard was a slight incline of the scythe's blade toward the upstairs.

A cold creeping sensation began to slowly tear in Holmes' mind. Sharp. Piercing. Gnawing. And growing stronger by the second. He shivered.

"Are you here to see Doctor Watson? If so, I must insist you come another day. He is not… er… seeing clients at this time."

The strange man said nothing. He only pointed his scythe more urgently upstairs.

Holmes felt his resolve grow. Every protective fibre in his body tensed. He stared straight into the man's unfathomable visage.

"No. I refuse to let you disturb my friend."

The dark enigmatic figure gesticulated again with his scythe.

"No. You will have to come back another time."

This time the figure took a step and tried to bypass the barrier of Holmes' body.

Holmes shifted. "No."

He planted his form firmly in the middle of the entrance, blocking his hooded adversary.

"I said, you shall not pass." His voice was low and quiet but filled with determination.

Both men stared at each other. Silent. Defiant.

At last, the dark mysterious visitor turned.

In an instant, he was gone.

Not even a footprint remained on the doorstep.

Holmes stood with his fists balled tightly, lips pressed firmly. He stared out into the gathering mists for a long time.

At long last he turned and bounded up the stairs, two at a time. It wasn't until he peeked into Watson's room and observed his peacefully sleeping form, quietly breathing, that he let out a very long sigh.


	13. Ch 13 Mycroft's Home

December 13

* * *

**From BookRookie12: Mycroft's home**

* * *

Spotless.

Immaculate.

Perfect.

Such words were often among the first adjectives used by the rare visitor to Mycroft Holmes' abode. Actually, The British Government could count the number of visitors to his home on one hand. He preferred to meet with dignitaries at his office; or, for a more casual conversation, the Diogenes club had a room reserved for moments verbal communication was necessary.

Yes, in reflection, the housekeeper, Mrs Calloway, who came once a week to dust and refresh the sheets was the only other human who saw his home on a regular basis. And, apparently, from the gossip Mycroft picked up informally, she was very protective of her client . No other bachelors were as neat and predictable as Mycroft.

The expensive china in the cupboard never needed cleaning. It was never used. Mycroft dined out.

The bed linens needed minimal scrubbing. He was the only one to sleep in them, and even then, he often didn't come home for days.

The parlour needed only a perfunctory dusting to keep the furniture shiny. No one ever cluttered the room with papers or mail. Those forms of communication were too precious to leave at home and went straight into a safe at the office.

It was good gig, Mrs Calloway mused to herself. She hummed in the hallway, her footsteps echoed in the hallway.

Mycroft's home was spotless, immaculate, and perfectly empty.


	14. Ch 14 An Important Conversation

December 14

* * *

**From W. Y. Traveller: Mycroft converses with Dr. Watson regarding an important matter**

* * *

Watson examined the fine etching on the envelope. The seal was unmistakeable. And yet, he found himself puzzled. Then again, whenever the enigmatic older Holmes was involved, he had to admit he was usually confused. The man oozed mystery.

"I wonder what he wants this time," he mused. It was late and he was alone in his surgery.

Just then he heard the familiar rumble of a carriage stopping just outside. Doctor Watson's heart skipped several beats. What terrible catastrophe would bring The British Government himself to his surgery? A thousand scenarios, each worse than the last and all ending in the death of Sherlock Holmes, came tumbling into his brain. He hurried to the door to let Mycroft into his office.

"Please, come in. I'm so sorry..." Watson anxiously hovered. "If I'd known you were coming…" his voice trailed off.

Mycroft sat down uneasily in a chair. He turned and motioned for Watson to do the same.

"I must apologise for this sudden intrusion. I did not mean to upset you." The man's keen eyes observed Watson's trembling hands.

"Is it Sherlock? Has something happened to him?" Watson feared the worst.

"No, no, my younger brother is in fine form – at least as far as he is concerned. He is not in any danger."

Watson remembered to breathe again.

"So, what prompted this visit then?" If the younger Holmes wasn't in trouble, he couldn't imagine what might bring Mycroft to his doorstep.

"I need your help, Watson."

The doctor blinked in surprise. "Me?! Are you sure? I mean, your brother has occasionally mentioned that I am a reflector of light and stimulating to his grey cells; but, if it's a case… " His voice wavered. "He is far more capable."

He gulped.

"I am well aware of my brother's talents – and weakness." Mycroft gave a wry smile. "No, it is most certainly your skills I have need of, Doctor Watson. Will you help me?"

"Of course."

"I want to get my brother a Christmas gift this year."


	15. Ch 15 Peace

December 15

_A/N: A continuation of chapter 14. Very grateful for this opportunity to continue the story._

* * *

**From V Tsuion: Peace**

* * *

"But why come to me for help with a Christmas gift for your brother?"

"Because, it's important to me…." The elder Holmes brother spoke softly. There was a hint of hesitancy though. He wasn't used to working within this uncertainty. He did not like the strange feeling, a feeling of being out of control. He was used to being in charge. He was comfortable only when he was handling every variable.

"Of course, I'll help you. But, why this year?" Watson looked up quizzically.

"I'm not getting younger," Mycroft gave a wan smile.

Watson waited.

Mycroft sighed. "My brother and I grew up. We went our separate directions. We haven't been close these past few years. I find I don't know my brother anymore."

Watson gave Holmes an empathetic smile. The poor man appeared to carry the weight of a hundred Christmases on his shoulders.

"You know, in spite of his sharp jabs and solitary habits lacking every social etiquette, he really does admire and care for you, Mr Holmes."

The elder man gave a wan smile.

"Underneath his Bohemian veneer, he loves you deeply," Watson added earnestly.

"Too kind," murmured The British Government.

"You know…" Watson suddenly sat up. His face lit up.

"I perceive you have thought of an appropriate gift for my brother to honour the spirit of the season."

"I believe I have."

"I'm not sure you'll like it though." Watson hesitated.

"I'm sure it will be better than another pipe which is what Sherlock would have received without your assistance," Mycroft answered politely.

"I don't know…It might require more effort than a pipe."

"A fair disclaimer, Doctor. Do continue."

"You came to me, Mr Holmes, because you wanted to restore your relationship with your brother? You want to bring peace once more and restore the warmth of the season between brothers. Am I correct?"

Mycroft Holmes nodded. "I believe I've already established that detail."

"Of course. Do excuse me. Sherlock is always reminding me that I have a bad habit of beginning my stories from the opposite side. What I wanted to suggest is an evening out – together."

Watson paused. The other Holmes was still listening.

"You two have more in common than you think. And, an evening over a fine dinner and champagne reminiscing tales of yore may be just the thing to rekindle your relationship. I mean, you're brothers. I'm sure you have all sorts of fun memories to laugh over. And, if you need a suggestion for a good restaurant, I can recommend the little Italian café around the corner."

Holmes leaned back and closed his eyes. He pressed his fingers together. He appeared to be calculating… lost in deep contemplation.

Watson let the quietness envelope them in the holiday flavours. He could hear the distant chatter of conversations on the street outside.

At last, the elder Holmes opened his eyes. He smiled. "Thank you, Doctor Watson. I believe you have proposed a most excellent solution to my problem. I shall make the necessary arrangements immediately."

As the distinguished gentleman rose to leave, he paused in the doorway. "No matter what ensues, you have my enduring gratitude. To peace!"

"To peace!" Watson waved goodbye.

~o~

_"Peace cannot be kept by force. It can only be achieved by understanding." —Albert Einstein_


	16. Ch 16 Pies

**December 16 From Wordwielder: Pies**

* * *

_A/N: I tried to do some research on appropriate Victorian pies. It seems pies in that period were quite elaborate affairs and often savoury instead of sweet. I might have taken a few liberties in order to make the story flow. My apologies in advance._

* * *

"I'm taking a survey," the young Scotland Yard recruit poised with pen and paper.

"Oh, and what are you surveying?" Inspector Lestrade looked up from his own paperwork and sighed. So many surveys this year; and for what purpose, to take away what precious little time he had to be in the field doing real detective work?!

"It's only one question," the recruit gave an apologetic shrug.

"Ok, fine. What's your one-question questionnaire?"

"What's your favourite pie?"

The Inspector looked thoughtful for a moment. "I will have to say plain apple pie. My mother made it every year for the holidays. It still brings back memories of family laughter and fun whenever I eat it."

The recruit nodded his gratitude and made a note on his paper.

~o~

"What's your favourite pie?"

"Steak and ale pie," Inspector Gregson replied. "It's sturdy and dependable.

"I like so many," Mary Watson smiled when the young recruit found her bustling about the streets finishing her Christmas shopping. "I guess I'll have to go with the chocolate tart. It's so delectable; no one can hate a good chocolate tart with cream."

"I do enjoy chocolate," Doctor Watson agreed. "But if I had to name a favourite, I'd have to go with Lemon Meringue." It can be a bit sour when it initially hits your mouth but give it a minute and the full flavours become apparent… delicate citrus with a complexity that baffles the taste buds and leaves the recipient yearning for more excitement."

Mrs Hudson dropped by the Yard to deliver her speciality later that day. The young recruit pulled out his pencil. "What your favourite pie, ma'am?" he inquired politely.

"Well, based on my contribution to the Yard's festive feasting… can't you tell?" Mrs Hudson's eyes twinkled and she laughed at the startled expression on the young man's face.

"Oh, yes, right. Of course, ma'am!" He smiled sheepishly and wrote down 'mince meat pie'. Very good, an excellent choice. Thank you for your contribution to the banquet. Mince meat is my choice too. My mother made them every Christmas."

Mrs Hudson smiled indulgently at the man. "Mince meat pie – traditional and so very British. I feel as if the recipe is part of my very blood. My mother and grandmother and great-grandmother all made mince pies."

"And might you know what Mr Holmes' favourite pie would be?" The young man looked up at Mrs Hudson hopefully.

"No, but you can ask him yourself. He seems to be talking with the Inspector over in the corner there."

The recruit made it way over to the pair. "Excuse me, Mr Holmes? I'm taking a survey. Would you mind telling me what your favourite pie is?" He stepped back respectfully to give the tall detective space.

"And what is the purpose in gathering this information?" Holmes looked at the man sharply. Inspector Lestrade waved a reassuring hand.

"He's ok, Holmes. He's new here. Administration put him in charge of the annual Christmas banquet here at the Yard. He's been asking everyone for their input today."

Holmes paused. The young recruit felt beads of sweat sprout on his forehead. His pencil trembled slightly in his grasp.

"Although I find your questions useless, after all, feasting while on a case is impossible and an impediment to my brain, I will answer your question. Clearly you are only doing your duty. The least objectionable option in pies is game pie, preferably that made from wild game such as venison, hare, and quail."

Holmes sniffed, satisfied he'd answered the question.

The young recruit gave a nod of acceptance and gratitude. He hurried off to collate his collected pie data.

As the Inspector watched the recruit disappearing around the corner, he chuckled. "Game pie, eh? He raised an amused eyebrow. "It's always about the game with you, isn't it?!"

"Come, Inspector. Let's not waste any more time on idle surveys. The game is afoot!


	17. Ch 17 Fake Dead Years

December 17

* * *

**From hold . my . coat: Sherlock Holmes: The Fake-Dead Years**

* * *

For three years Sherlock Holmes was dead. During those years, his travels took him to many exotic, far away places. In spite of his Bohemian habits, he found his heart yearning for human connection at times.

On Christmas Eve, somewhere in the Far East, an exceptionally tall stranger, weathered by the harsh, dry mountain air, stood in the shadows of the temple interior. His head was bowed. His body was so copiously swathed in layers of cloth that only his upper face showed. His eyes, respectfully lowered, glittered with eagle intensity and drank in the proceedings of the temple.

The interior was beautifully decorated with thick red and yellow drapery, edged in gold. Adoring worshippers had left behind gifts of flowers, food, and trinkets at the base of the gleaming golden Buddha. The only light in the temple came from hundreds of candles flickering along the walls and altar steps. Their soft warm light shimmered over the shaved heads of a group twenty monks seated together. Their lyrical chants filled the room with the gravity of eternity.

Gradually, their chants trailed off into silence without any apparent signal. The candles burned bravely. The monks remained seated, immobile, for many more minutes in solemn meditations.

The stranger watched from the sidelines without a sign of life except the occasional blink of his eyes which never wavered in their observation.

A sober gong rang out… one deliberate vibration, its tailing note hovering in the air. At last, the worshippers began to shuffle out of the temple. One monk with small, dark, bright eyes veered away from the group. He stood in front of the stranger. He placed his hands together in a prayer position in front of his heart and gave a small bow. As his head rose, his dark observant eyes captured the grey piercing ones of the stranger. Their gaze lingered for the briefest of moments. It was only a glance… a silent exchange between strangers. The message was as clear though.

The stranger turned and filed out silently. He picked up his walking stick and began navigating his way down the mountain. The monks filed on upwards to their remote living quarters. Both had miles to go before they slept.

_~o~ _


	18. Ch 18 Obscure Trivia

December 18

* * *

**From ThatSassyCaptain: While reluctant to absorb anything unnecessary to his detection skills, Holmes has deemed your favourite obscure trivia relevant! How and why does this come about?**

* * *

"It's a murder…" Watson said.

The constable nodded his head as they entered 221B.

Both men looked tired.

Doctor Watson trailed up the 17 steps of their flat and sunk heavily into his chair. "It was a long night, Holmes."

Holmes glanced up at the two men. "I believe I heard you two say murder. I sincerely hope it was not in relation to that minor problem you were working on last night. It was a simple case not worth my time. Please, have a seat. Fill me in on the details." He held up a slender hand. "Only the pertinent details. None of the flowery elaborations that Watson has a weakness for."

The constable sank down gratefully in the seat provided. "Watson's correct, Mr Holmes, definitely a murder…"

Before the young man could continue, Holmes rose sharply from his chair. His grey eyes flashed."I cannot conceive how such could have happened. I gave The Yard the exact location of Moriarty's men. The place should have been empty. Did the Inspector miss someone in his sweep of the building? I explicitly warned him that this could be a dangerous operation and to keep civilians away? In spite of my misgivings with the constabulary, I thought for sure they'd be equipped to deal with this simple gang of thieves."

Watson interjected Holmes' rant. "Hold up, Holmes, on the murder. Inspector Lestrade and his men did manage to capture the criminal gang. Because of the valuable information you provided, the police caught the gang right in the act of forcing the vault. The official papers were saved."

"But murder… if I hadn't been busy on this other case…" Holmes frowned. "I should have supervised the operation at the government office myself…"

"But, Holmes," Watson attempted to interrupt again. A sudden realisation dawned. "Holmes, there wasn't that kind of murder. No one was hurt. The criminals didn't even have a chance to draw their pistols."

"What?" Holmes' looked momentary confused. "I clearly heard you and the constable discussing a murder."

Well, yes, but not the kind of murder you imagined."

"What other kind of murder is there?"

The constable and I were talking about the flock of crows that descended upon the crime scene earlier this morning. We were discussing the correct term for such a flock. I was explaining a group of crows is called a murder."

The constable nodded. "He's right. I looked it up."

"Oh." Holmes flopped back into his settee.

Watson smiled. "A fact for your brain attic?"

"Perhaps," the detective gave a wan smile.

A silence descended on the group. The constable and Watson appeared to rest their eyes. Neither had slept the previous night. However, Holmes remained awake, deep in thought.

Suddenly, he jumped up and ran to the window. The morning sunlight streamed through. Two crows perched on a branch opposite.

"Look, an attempted murder!"

* * *

A/N: I know... a silly piece. It wasn't too much of a obscure fact. And the pun at the end is a bit groan-worthy. Pardon my tired brain.


	19. ch 19 Bookstore Crime

December 19

* * *

**From mrspencil: a bookstore is the scene of a crime**

* * *

"I can't understand how such an item went missing?" the bookseller adjusted his spectacles and peered at the narrow section on the shelf, which no long contained the volume. "There were no footprints, no broken glass, no marks on the lock. I did not notice anyone suspicious looking around last evening either."

Holmes and Watson began to examine the store for clues to the thief.

"Nothing, Watson," the detective turned a frustrated stare upon the undisturbed polished lock of the front door. "No sign of a forced entry. No prints. Not a scrap of clothing."

"There were those broken walnut shells in the corner," Watson shrugged his shoulders.

Holmes brought out his magnifying glass and examined the pile of husks. He popped a small item into a collection vial. "You are invaluable, Watson." He held up the vial for the doctor's closer inspection.

"Ah, I see. Shall we return home?" Watson asked.

~o~

Later that day, Basel and Dawson carefully listened to Holmes' narration of the facts. A missing book with only some gnawed walnut pieces left behind and a single strand of mouse hair.

"I believe I may be able to help you," Basel squeaked. "There has been a string of murders amount the rodentia, specifically the _muridae_ family. Based on the symptoms, I am suspicious that someone is using arsenic to poison the victims. I shall send my associates out tonight to investigate the alleyways. I am sure this book is related."

Dawson's whiskers quivered. "I'm sure those who have borrowed the book will return it once they are finished."

Watson broke off a bit of Mrs Hudson's shortcake and handed pieces to both mice. "Thank you for your assistance in this case. Together we can remedy this bookstore crime."

* * *

_A/N: The book in question was published in 1818 by Mathieu Orfila: Secours à donner aux personnes empoisonnées et asphiyxiées (A popular treatise on the remedies to be employed in cases of poisoning and apparent death)_


	20. ch 20 A Christmas Carol

December 20

* * *

**From Domina Temporis: A Christmas Carol**

* * *

Inspector Lestrade sank gratefully back into the comfortable seat offered by Watson. "

"Drink?" Watson asked.

"Yes, I could certainly use one after this last case.

"It's been a cold night." Watson nodded.

"Gathering up the last of the criminal gang at the abandoned barn wasn't easy. I had to make sure my men didn't alert them to our presence."

"I'm glad you succeeded, Inspector. It must have been difficult maintaining your silent position in such freezing temperatures." Watson shivered involuntarily thinking about Lestrade's stake out.

The Inspector nodded and took an appreciative swallow of his brandy.

Just then, the pair heard the melodious strains of some carollers outside their window on the street below.

Watson walked over to the window to watch the large group of merry singers going door-to-door bringing Christmas cheer.

_"Here we come a-wassailing among the leaves so green;_

_Here we come a-wandering, so fair to be seen._

_Love and joy come to you, and to you our wassail, too…"_

The words trailed off as the group meandered happily down the road further.

"What's a wassail, Watson?" the Inspector broke the silence.

"I believe it's a beverage of hot mulled cider. It dates back to medieval times when there was a tradition of brewing wassail in enormous bowels. Peasants got together and drank this mulled brew, toasting to each other's good health and a bountiful apple harvest."

So wassailing is basically an ancient English drinking ritual?"

"I suppose you could look at that way," Watson mused. "Mostly now I think it's all about wishing each other a happy Christmas."

Lestrade raised his glass toward Watson. "Well then, to wassailing."

Watson smiled. "To wassailing."


	21. Ch 21 Christmas in Sussex Downs

December 21

* * *

**From Domina Temporis: Christmas in Sussex Downs**

* * *

The day was grey. Thick clouds blanketed the sky. It was a cold, crisp day on the Sussex Downs.

Watson's knee protested audibly as he stood up and stretched from his resting place at his desk. "Let's go for a stroll, Holmes. The fresh air will do us both a good turn."

"It's cold. Precipitation is imminent. I have more important matters inside." Holmes muttered without looking up from his study of the pollen varieties collected from samples of his bee colony earlier that summer.

Ignoring Holmes' protests, Watson took a few creaking steps before his appendages cooperated and walked over to the front door. "It's a perfect day for a stroll." He announced as he opened the door and surveyed the vast open greyness that blanketed the fields in front of their cottage. "The mist will certainly provide a cover against any random tourist accosting us and the threat of rain will discourage most from venturing outside."

Holmes didn't say anything.

"Come get your coat." Watson bustled with his own coat and scarf, struggling a bit with his boots.

In an instant, the greying detective was at his friend's side to assist.

"Thank you, Holmes." Watson gratefully accepted his friend's help putting on his walking boots. "Now that your up," his blue eyes twinkled and the wrinkled edges of his eyes creased more deeply with his smile, "why don't you join me on our stroll? Your pollen isn't going to spoil."

Holmes groaned, more out of habit rather than any annoyance. "Always my inspiration. Yes, I shall join you." He put on his coat and hat. "Don't forget your cane, old man," he teased as he held the door open for Watson to pass.

"Happy Christmas, Holmes," Watson smiled.


	22. ch 22 Falling Chair

December 22

* * *

**From BookRookie12: A chair gets tipped over**

* * *

"Grab the end of his lead," Watson reached out for the elusive restraining device. But, Toby was too quick. The leash slipped through his fingers.

One of the Irregulars leapt on top of the table.

"Get back down here immediately, young man," Mrs Hudson scolded as she unsuccessfully tried to corral the excited canine.

"Oh, all right," the Irregular jumped down. "This is fun! It's like a circus. Can I have a cup of hot cocoa?"

"Not right now, Jimmy. I'm a little busy. Why don't you help us catch Toby?"

"But he doesn't want to be caught. He likes running around."

"Running around inside is not the proper place for a dog to exercise, Jimmy." Mrs Hudson grimaced as Watson toppled onto the floor after narrowly avoiding the rambunctious Toby's speeding form.

"Oomph!" The poor doctor scrambled to his feet, dusting off his trousers.

"Toby, sit." The doctor's stern voice reverberated over the chaos.

Unfortunately, Toby chose to focus on jumping onto a chair at that precise moment. With a mighty push from his hind legs, he leaped. Being of a more diminutive stature than either Holmes or Watson, Toby's front paws managed to reach the edge of the chair, his back did not. He valiantly tried to scramble with his forward momentum but sadly; the laws of gravitational pull prevailed. Both dog and chair tipped over.

Although unhurt, Toby let out a startled 'yelp' while Mrs Hudson let out a satisfied, "at last," as she circled her hand into Toby's lead.

Watson did a quick survey to ensure that no one was harmed. He breathed a sigh of relief. The room appeared to have entertained a small tornado but otherwise was still standing.

"Why don't you take Toby out for a small stroll – outside – while I straighten up this mess?" Mrs Hudson asked Jimmy. "When you come back, I'll fix you that hot cocoa you asked for earlier.

Toby wagged his tail happily as he exited the flat with Jimmy holding tightly to his lead.

Watson gave Mrs Hudson a grateful nod. He picked up the tipped chair and began to assist the long-suffering landlady in straightening up.


	23. ch 23 Moran and Moriarty for Christmas

December 23

**From Domina Temporis: Celebrate the holidays with Moran and Moriarty**

* * *

For Moriarty, the holiday season was a waste. Economically, it did not make sense in his calculations. Hard working peasants spent money they didn't have to purchase gifts for people that didn't need them. It was a misappropriation of precious resources. The great arachnid of crime organisation didn't understand why human societies propagated the tradition. He preferred to ignore the whole fiasco and spent the holiday hours quietly drawing up his mathematical calculations and plotting his nefarious schemes.

~o~

Colonel Sebastian Moran was educated at Eton College and Oxford University before embarking on his military career. He was a devoted sportsman and distinguished himself as a highly skilled marksman. Although he was forced to retire from the army, his courage and daring were never questioned after he reportedly crawled down a drain after a wounded man-eating tiger.

Moriarty saved each scrap of news reported on the man. He read the man's books '_Heavy Game of the Western Himalayas'_ c. 1881 and '_Three Months in the Jungle'_ c. 1884 several times, lapping up the drops of inference from the narratives. The Colonel strolled the streets of London with a veneer of a gentleman's respectability but underneath, the genius of the dark underground criminal network spied a monster. Here was a man untamed, ravenous, and hungry for challenge. With his air rifle and his unparalleled marksmanship, here was a man ripe for special assassinations… Moriarty didn't hesitate. He recruited him soon after he landed on the shores of London.

The mastermind of criminal psychology allowed Moran his freedom. He let the man roam like a tiger – stalking, silent, biding his time until the opportune moment. After the killing of Mrs. Stuart in 1887*, he asked the Colonel to be his chief assistant. When the man accepted on Christmas Eve, Moriarty smiled. Here, at last, was a Christmas gift worthy of the season.

A/N:_* In The Empty House, Sherlock Holmes mentions the death of Mrs. Stewart, of Lauder, in 1887, but he couldn't prove that Colonel Moran was at the bottom of it_


	24. ch 24 A Movie Star

December 24

* * *

**From Michael JG Meathook: Sherlock believes he has found his true calling as the world's newest profession: a movie star.**

* * *

Fluffy white bunnies hopped nonchalantly across the stage. The real live tree branches were arranged with such exactitude that even the animals on set felt at home within their natural woods. With expertly applied greasepaint under a wig of flaxen curls, Sherlock Holmes' metamorphosis was complete. He gave an expansive wave of his arms and with an anguished expression, lamented, most admirably, the folly of love.

_"And yet, to say the truth, reason and love keep little company together nowadays (1)."_

The surging crowd scenes of priests and military marching in stringent rows only added to the inspiration as Antony returned to Alexandria in the dramatised play, Anthony and Cleopatra. Holmes made a stunning Cleopatra in his thick makeup and flowing robe tied up with a golden girdle. Although he kept his natural dark hair, he styled it into an elaborate Egyptian design.

His voice swelled with emotion as she cried,

"_The crown o' the earth doth melt. My lord!_

_O, wither'd is the garland of the war,_

_The soldier's pole is fall'n: young boys and girls_

_Are level now with men; the odds is gone,_

_And there is nothing left remarkable_

_Beneath the visiting moon. (2)"_

His acting was so clever, so inventive, so varied, so intensely interesting that audiences flocked to his films. He was a star.

The great actor took a bow. His success, first in theatre and then on film was unparalleled. He reached out to shake hands with his admiring fans, murmuring his gratitude demurely. Suddenly someone from behind rudely pushed past. His body shook. He felt himself jostled into the crowd.

Holmes started to panic. He waved his arms in protest against the clamour. Where was his Boswell, his assistant and trusted companion? He felt his throat start to constrict. He strained his neck to look around.

"Holmes, wake up!" Watson gently shook the shoulders of detective.

The sleeping detective opened his eyes and blinked. The sitting room where he'd fallen asleep swirled back into focus. Watson was standing by his side with a worried expression.

"I'm sorry, Watson. I must have been dreaming."

He noticed Watson's frown and quickly added, "It wasn't a nightmare. Just, ah, an unusually vivid dream."

"Oh?" Watson sat down to let Holmes explain.

"I was an actor and made films."

He looked over at Watson who obviously still had questions.

"I was a good actor… very dramatic, I believe."

Watson nodded. "Ah, I see. That would explain the shouts then."

Holmes blushed.

Suddenly the puzzle pieced clicked together in Watson's brain. "You must have been inspired by the Lumière brothers' cinématographe. We just watched their demonstration last week.

Holmes looked over at his friend with a warm smile. "I suppose one could say it was a dream-worthy invention."

* * *

(1) Midsummer's Night's Dream by Shakespeare

(2) Antony and Cleopatra by Shakespeare

*The Lumiere brothers' cinématographe was hand-cranked, lightweight (less than 20 pounds [9 kg]), projector. It functioned as a camera and printer as well. The first commercial demonstration was on December 28, 1895 in Paris


	25. ch 25 Christmas at the Watsons

December 25

* * *

**From Book girl fan: Christmas with the Watsons.**

* * *

"I'm so glad you could finish up your rounds a little earlier today," Mary poured Watson a second cup of tea.

The doctor gave his wife a grateful nod. "Small blessings, especially for this season of the year when influenza is so abundant."

The couple retired to their chairs in front of the fireplace. The warmth gradually seeped into every fibre. Watson let out a long sigh.

"Do you like the tree this year? The green branches seem thicker than last year's."

"Mmm, yes, beautiful."

"Have you had a chance to try out your new writing journal?"

"Not yet, perhaps later in the evening though."

Mary smiled lovingly. "You have touched countless people with your stories. I hope you continue to find inspiration. I know it's been difficult for you recently. This is the first Christmas without Holmes." She paused. A tear rolled down her cheek. "I miss him too, you know."

The room grew quiet except for the crackling of the flames in the fireplace. A log split with a hiss of sparks.

Watson reached out for his wife's outstretched hand. He held it tenderly. "I do miss him," his voice choked up a little, "words on page in pen and ink just can't express it adequately. And, yet," he gripped her hand a little tighter, "I am ever so grateful for you, Mary. I don't know what I'd have done if you hadn't been here with me."

Watson turned his tear-filled eyes toward his wife. "Thank you," he whispered.

The logs in the fireplace gradually burned down and turned into glowing embers. The two held each other in tender embrace. It was a quiet Christmas night.

"Happy Christmas, dearest," she whispered.

"And to you, my love," he echoed.

Their tree, decked in colourful ornaments and reflective ribbons, twinkled in the candlelight.

All was well at the Watsons on Christmas.


	26. ch 26 decorations

December 26

**From PowerOfPens: Watson doesn't want to take down decorations.**

* * *

"Just a few more days, Holmes. I'm still enjoying the festive atmosphere that brightens up the grey London winter."

Holmes gave his acquiescence with a fond smile. "A couple more days then, doctor. It is after the New Year though. I doubt Mrs Hudson will allow our festive frippery for much longer. The needles of this evergreen are less green each moment." Holmes raised an eyebrow, "And, more often found on the floor than the branch." He observed another cluster of needles slowly drift to the floor.

~o~

Doctor Watson, it's time to discard this wilting evergreen." Mrs Hudson frowned at the browning branches on last year's tree. "I enjoy holiday decorations as much as anyone. But, this tree has fulfilled its destiny. It is time to clean up the flat. It's nearing February."

Watson looked up at Mrs Hudson and nodded. He made no effort to remove the desiccated tree and pack away the other decorations. Mrs Hudson turned away with a huff and went off to finish her baking downstairs.

~o~

A few days later, Holmes, Watson, and Inspector Lestrade were sharing a drink before the fire. The evening was quiet.

"Are you conducting another of your experiments for the sake of science, Holmes?" Inspector Lestrade indicated the barren pine, forlornly drooping into a puddle of dried needles in the corner.

"No, not this time. The honour is Watson's I suppose. For some reason, he insists on keeping last year's decorations.

Watson took a sip of brandy. He chose to ignore the implications. "A satisfactory drink, I must say," he closed his eyes, soaking in the warmth.

The men continued to sit companionably. For a while, no one spoke. At last, Watson cleared his throat.

"I suppose I owe you an explanation for my reluctance to demolish last year's festive decorations."

He paused.

"I blame my romantic fantasies. It's silly, actually. I mean, I know it's only my imagination. It's the light playing tricks… the reflections off the tinsel and star… but, when I sit and stare at night at the tree, I see fairies dancing among the branches. Well, shadows that look like messengers from the other side of the world." His voiced trailed off. "I know, it's only an illusion."

The room was quiet.

"I believe dear Mrs Hudson could be convinced to allow the star to shimmer a bit longer in the corner." Holmes murmured. With a wry smile, he added, "It may behoove us to clean up the remnants of these branches by feeding them to our flickering flames burning low before us now."

"Agreed," Watson rose from his chair. Lestrade and Holmes joined him. Together they fed the fire and cleaned up the decorations.

They sat back down to enjoy the renewed warmth. "Beautiful," the Inspector gave his approval of the star topper that remained in the corner, reflecting the flickering light of the fire into a million fantastical fractals.


	27. ch 27 good omen

December 27

* * *

**From W. Y. Traveller: Good omen**

* * *

Holmes and Watson hurried into the flat. It was raining outside. As usual, Holmes neglected an umbrella for protection from the elements; Watson, having more respect for what a cold soaking in the rain can do to the body's immune defences, shared with his partner. They were only half wet.

As Watson slid the umbrella back into it's corner, the handle slipped from his moist hands.

Holmes lightening reflexes instantly saved it from falling.

"Thank you," Watson gratefully smiled at his friend. "Wouldn't want it to hit the ground. I have enough to worry about without waiting for a murder within this very flat. Best to keep the crimes outside our home (1)."

~0~

The two men settled next to the fireplace to dry off and warm their toes. Watson chose to delve more into his reading articles. Holmes wandered off into his head.

"It's a good thing your family name has an 's' on the end."

"Why?" Holmes turned to Watson, mildly curious.

"Well, apparently, if you have 13 letters in your name, you'll have 'the devil's luck'."

"Superstition."

Watson shrugged. "Well, Jack the Ripper might disagree (2)."

~o~

Holmes wandered over to the front window. The rain had lessened and he noticed a couple magpies perched on the street lamp. An old nursery rhyme echoed from deep within his brain attic.

_One for sorrow_

_Two for joy..._

Holmes smiled. Joy would be nice for the season. He recalled with a twinge of regret that day he'd spotted an entire flock of 7 magpies (3)

~o~

Watson coughed in the corner.

"Sorry to disturb your meditation. I'm sure it's nothing serious," he hastily added when Holmes looked over, alarmed.

"I suppose, I could use one of my hairs and make a sandwich of it with buttered bread. Guaranteed to cure me if Toby eats it."

Holmes grimaced. "Might not be good news for Toby though."

Watson nodded. My grandmother used to swear by such. Dogs never seemed to suffer though. I think they rather liked the bread (4).

~o~

"It appears you are on the topic of superstitions and omens," Holmes lamented. "I might, therefore, add my own observation. I place little belief in such ancient tradition; but, in line with your concern about the umbrella, I thought it might reassure you. In some cultures, it is believed that a bat's highly refined sense of smell can "sniff" out locations with an auspicious chi. Therefore, if a family of bats comes to nest in the eaves of a house, that place will experience good fortune (5)."

"Interesting," Watson nodded, cautiously.

"I would like to inform you, therefore, that a family of bats has just last week taken up habitation in the attic."

"That is somewhat reassuring in light of what you've just explained." Watson said hesitantly. "Let's not tell Mrs Hudson though."

Although neither man was completely convinced on such harbingers of good fortune, the bats were left undisturbed. Holmes suddenly had a break in his case and captured the troublesome gang of smugglers. Several other minor burglaries were solved in record speed and a murder case unsolved for a year was remarkably wrapped up.

Neither felt the feathered whisper of the wings of an unlikely pair, an angel and a demon, flutter over them while they reminisced*.

A_/N: Silly compilation of various omens… both good and bad. Also couldn't pass up a little reference to the television mini-series *"Good Omens" staring the characters, Aziraphale and Crowly, from a book written by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman title, Good Omens: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch (1990)_

_(1) Dropping an umbrella on the floor means that there will be a murder in the house._

_(2) If you have 13 letters in your name, you will have the devil's luck. For example, Jack the Ripper, Charles Manson, Jeffrey Dahmer, Theodore Bundy and Albert De Salvo_

_(3) An old nursery rhyme with many variations states one's luck will be determined by the number of magpies seen:_

_One for sorrow_

_Two for joy_

_Three for a letter_

_Four for a boy._

_Five for silver_

_Six for gold_

_Seven for a secret, never to be told_

_(4) To cure a cough: take a hair from the coughing person's head, put it between two slices of buttered bread, feed it to a dog, and say, "Eat well you hound, may you be sick and I be sound."_

_(5) In some Chinese traditions, it's believed that bats nest only in auspicious places. Therefore if bats come and nest in the eaves of a home, that family rejoices because this heralds good fortune_


	28. ch 28 Snowed In

December 28

* * *

**From BookRookie12: Snowed in for a day**

* * *

Holmes paced back and forth, like a caged tiger. The atmosphere in the sitting room hung heavy with a dark cloud of tobacco smoke that the meagre flames in the fireplace could barely penetrate.

"Holmes, don't you have something else to do – anything?" Watson pleaded from his writing desk. He coughed. "I could help you alphabetise your entries."

Holmes frowned. He continued pacing.

Mrs Hudson came up from her cooking downstairs with a tray of biscuits and tea. "The snow is really coming down thick. It's a right blizzard today. No one's going in or out."

Watson nodded his thanks to Mrs Hudson and took his tea. "It's a rare occurrence to have such weather in London. I hope it clears soon though. I do enjoy the winter white but…" He glanced over at Holmes.

Mrs Hudson gave the doctor an understanding gaze. "Just give me a few minutes to wrap a few things in the kitchen. I'll be back." She announced briskly.

Holmes shrugged.

Watson sighed.

They waited.

In a half hour, the bustling housekeeper returned with some slips of paper in a basket. "It's called charades," she announced. Handing the bowl to Watson.

"Now, each person must choose a slip of paper and act out the phrase written on it. You can use gestures but no words. The goal is to have your team guess correctly as many slips of paper as possible within sixty seconds. It's a game… the goal is to have fun." Mrs Hudson looked pointedly at Holmes.

"Since you're already up, why don't you start, Mr Holmes?"

Reluctant initially, Holmes was eventually convinced to join.

In spite of his misgivings, the expert disguise artist was a natural at charades.

The trio laughed at his impersonation of The Grinch, decorating a Christmas tree, riding in a sleigh, and Silent Night.

Doctor Watson had everyone in stitches with his Santa impersonation and a demonstration of how to make a snowman.

Mrs Hudson stole the show that day though when she drew 'ice skating' and 'mistletoe'.

The afternoon passed in a flurry of laughter.


	29. ch 29 a long journey

December 29

* * *

**From Book girl fan: A long journey has just begun.**

* * *

Watson groaned in his sleep. The bed in his new flat share was certainly an improvement over his old lodgings but still he tossed restlessly.

War was harsh. Men had to make choices for which none were prepared. Who would live; who would die. Doctor Watson still had nightmares.

A sudden hot poker stabbing into his shoulder woke him from his restless dreaming. Sweat beaded on his forehead and dripped down his ashen face as he tried to keep from waking up his new flatmate – one who had the ears of a wolf on high alert.

The pain gnawed at his brain. It seared into his shoulder. It burned into his core and radiated in electric shocks down his extremities. Most of the time, Watson managed to keep his shoulder to a dull ache, a constant pounding of his appendage. But, at night, if he slept just a little bit too much on that side, it was like a knife, tearing asunder his shoulder joint, inch by inch.

Watson got up as quietly as possible. He breathed the cold damp London air. A splash of water on his face helped distract his mind from other matters.

As his arm began to settle down again, his mind focused back on his recent acquaintance, and now, flatmate.

"What a strange man," he mused. Intense. Intelligent. Often tinkering around with his chemicals or researching the crime annals… it was no wonder he called himself a consulting detective. It suited him.

And yet, Watson wondered what wounds the man might have suffered on his life's path so far. Did Holmes have regrets about the choices he'd made? Did he ever wonder about a case gone sour? What drove Holmes to investigate… to make solving crimes his life's purpose?

Watson's face dried and colour returned. The pain had subsided to a dull throb. Watson crawled back under his covers. He resolved to learn more about his new flatmate. It would be his goal to become an investigator, a researcher. He determined to research him– to penetrate the mystery of Sherlock Holmes.

It was going to be a long journey; but, he had time.


	30. ch 30 old wounds

December 30

* * *

**From Winter Winks 221: Old Wounds**

* * *

_"I felt a sudden hot sear as if a red-hot iron had been pressed to my thigh. There was a crash as Holmes's pistol came down on the man's head. I had a vision of him sprawling upon the floor with blood running down his face while Holmes rummaged him for weapons. Then my friend's wiry arms were round me, and he was leading me to a chair._

_"You're not hurt, Watson? For God's sake, say that you are not hurt!"_

_It was worth a wound — it was worth many wounds — to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask. The clear, hard eyes were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking. For the one and only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great brain. All my years of humble but single-minded service culminated in that moment of revelation."_

_~ The Adventure of the Three Garridebs_

* * *

Watson sat at his desk. The fire glowed and banished the cold wintery atmosphere of London from the room. It was quiet. Holmes had departed on one of his mysterious escapades. Mrs Hudson was out visiting friends. A distant chime tolled in the distance and rumbled faintly through the parlour.

The doctor rubbed his leg. A scar still bore testimony to his encounter with Winter's bullet. It was a superficial wound in the end. No shattered femur. Thankfully, no infection had complicated his recovery and he had only an occasional twinge at the site now. It was such a different story from another wound.

Watson imagined it was a lifetime ago. No comforting friend caught him when that bullet shattered his shoulder. He barely recalled how'd he had been dragged half-conscious to safety under the shower of assault. There was no comfort when the bullet was extracted, cleansed, and bandaged. He was alone in his fever when infection set into shoulder.

He recalled his friend's tender comfort in his convalescence after Winter's bullet. His memories were tender and soft. Mrs Hudson had brought him tea and his favourite pastries. Holmes had soothed his restless night with harmonies upon his violin. Even the Inspector brought him stories from The Yard when he needed a distraction.

Although time had dulled the sharp edges, Watson still felt the daggers of darkness when he recalled his time in Afghanistan and his helplessness upon his hospital cot. The nurses had been kind and took cared for his physical needs. His mental suffering turned out to be far greater.

Old wounds. Wounds shrouded in memories, steeped in emotion, purged with time. The scars remained. Watson thought about his shoulder. It still ached on cold nights. He spent years healing. His leg merely had a scar. Only a twinge reminded him of his friend's utter loyalty and love. His wounds were stories. His friends redefined his mind's narrative. Love was stronger than any injury.

* * *

A/N: I couldn't resist a favourite quote from 3GAR.


	31. ch 31 burn after reading

December 31

* * *

**From Hades Lord of the Dead: Burn after reading.**

* * *

It was a cold winter night. The street lamps glowed through the thick fog, orderly golden beacons, standing like soldiers at attention in disappearing rows. Somewhere in the distance, church bells tolled the evening hour. Their mournful tones echoed distant memories of times past.

From an upstairs window the silhouette of a slender violin player could be seen. His shadow was faintly swaying to the rhythm of the bow across his strings. Unseen by those outside, Watson sat in his chair by the fire, reading. His brow furrowed in concentration as he read the carefully penned lines on a recent letter addressed to Sherlock Holmes:

_Dear Mr Holmes_

_It is with great hesitancy that I pen these words. I trust you will appreciate the delicate and sensitive nature of my situation and treat it with the utmost discretion. I simply cannot continue in this fear that permeates my every hour these past few days. It is unbearable and yet, in light of the circumstances, which I will outline for you at my visit, I am sure you will understand why I have not consulted the police. It is matter outside their realm I am afraid. _

_I fear, that even you, with such a reputation as you possess, will be unable to assist and yet, you are my last hope. Please, I beg you, allow me to lay my desperate case before you. I shall explain all when I arrive at the first train tomorrow in London. However, for the moment, suffice it to say that I am a doomed man. My brother, as you most certainly have read about in the recent papers, unfortunately passed away under unexplained circumstances. The police, who investigated his death, determined he died alone. There was no sign of an intruder or violence. His clothing caught fire while he was asleep by the fireplace and the unfortunate housekeeper discovered his charred remains in the morning. His chair remained intact. It was deemed an accident. But, Holmes, I cannot conceive he was that careless. I know my brother and he was careful. He never drank. He would never allow himself to fall asleep next to such flames. Besides, it makes no sense in my study of physics that his body should be so burnt, the flames so hot as to transform his bones into ash, while his chair remained barely scathed. I cannot understand it. I fear something otherworldly caused his downfall and now I fear the same fate awaits me. Please, if you can find any kindness in your heart, be available for me to consult you tomorrow at 10 o'clock. _

_Yours truly,_

_Mr I.B. Embers _

Watson rubbed the letter and the envelope between his fingers. The paper was heavy and expensive, the watermark of the highest quality. He recalled reading about the case of an unfortunate man who passed away in a fire at his residence. Some of the more sensational papers call it spontaneous combustion.

As he contemplated Mr Ember's desperate letter, he wondered what could possibly cause the man to believe he was next. It sounded fantastical. Perhaps the man was a lunatic although the expensive monogrammed stationary would argue otherwise. He shrugged and settled deeper into his chair by the fire. Tomorrow all would be answered.

The violin's music came to a halt and the only sound was the crackling of the glowing embers. "Well, Watson, I perceive by your bewildered expression that you've read our potential client's letter."

"Yes, I have."

"And did you see the post script on the other side?"

Watson turned over the letter and read:

_If you value my life, burn this after reading_

"Strong words. The man is clearly a troubled soul."

"There are some points that may prove most interesting," Holmes smiled enigmatically.

Watson held the envelope and letter and nodded.

At last, Holmes raised his bow. "Let us honour our client's wishes. The least we can do is report we have followed his initial directions. I pray tomorrow shall shed more light upon the issue."

The haunting melody of _Auld Lang Syne_ melted into the air as Holmes whiled away the hours until their client could arrive in the morning.

~o~

A/N: Many thanks to everyone who sent their encouraging and insightful reviews. Each one means so much. I wish I could express how much I am inspired by all your feedback.

Special thanks to everyone who submitted prompts for my December Challenge:

mrspencil 1, 19

Domina Temporise 2, 8, 20, 21, 23

Winter Winks 221 3, 7, 30

cjnwriter 4, 11

W.Y. Traveller 5, 6, 14, 27

PowerOfPens 9, 26

V Tsuion 10, 15

Michael JG Meathook 12, 24

BookRookie12 chapters 13, 22, 28

Wordwielder 16

HoldMyCoat 17

ThatSassyCaptain 18

Book girl fan 25, 29

Hades Lord of the Dead 31

**Happy New Year!**

**May your muses be inspired and your writing pen free in 2020.**


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